


Ooh fuck

by Herlilacskies



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Dicks, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-05
Updated: 2020-05-05
Packaged: 2021-03-02 17:54:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,322
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24020929
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Herlilacskies/pseuds/Herlilacskies
Summary: The nogitsune goes to Derek to make Stiles miserable.
Relationships: Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Comments: 4
Kudos: 43





	Ooh fuck

**Author's Note:**

> There're some non-con moments.  
> I kept starting this thing at odd parts so there're scenes that are written prettily and those are the ones I like and then there're the parts that I just—got through. So. Read at your own discretion.  
> The ending is an implication, if that makes sense.

Derek became conscious, unsure of his sudden alertness, but knowing that it was because something was wrong. He couldn’t pinpoint exactly what was wrong or, more specifically, what had him awake and his hair standing on end. He used his senses, straining his hearing and his smell, trying to pick up what had him so readily on edge, poised to—he didn’t know what.

Then he heard something. It was a barely-there little pitter-patter that Derek had unconsciously attributed to a drip somewhere, but then, like a film had been shielding it and suddenly taken away, the beat became so clear to be that of a heart. His chest seized in panic and discomfort because it was right there, in the open area of his loft, probably only a few feet from his bed. He kept his eyes shut, breathing controlled, and then the smell hit him: Stiles.

Stiles, who was supposed to be at Eichen House. Stiles, who was missing time and sleep and quite likely on the brink of insanity. Stiles, who was plagued by a Nogitsune. It couldn’t have been Stiles, though, not here, not really.

There was a husky chuckle that exuded a promise of darkness and chaos. It was entirely un-Stiles, to the point that Derek felt a shiver course through his body, prickling his skin. Then he heard a low and eerie drawl, “I know you’re awake, Derek Hale.” Derek’s eyes shot open as he sat up swiftly, his senses going into overdrive and a subvocal growl emanating from his chest. “Alpha Hale.” The, presently, Nogitsune seemed to taunt the beta werewolf who was slowly losing his power, mocking Derek.

The derision and the knowing words made the older man growl louder, unrestrained and angry at so many things he couldn’t control. How did the Nogitsune know when Derek was just barely starting to grasp the reality of what was happening to his own body? Did Stiles know by proxy? Probably not given he never remembered blackouts before. Though it stood to question if Stiles’ intellect was how the Nogitsune knew anything about him at all. It seemed logical, though, it meant Stiles had figured out why Derek had refused to help them, see them even, over the last few weeks. It was a daunting notion Derek would rather not examine too closely, though, his thoughts were quickly gone with Stiles’—the Nogitsune’s words.

“Oh, don’t look so glum, Alpha. It’s just Stiles.” It grinned, leering closer to the foot of the bed. “Just weak, fragile, too—”

Derek growled, low and warning, daring it to insult Stiles again. Stiles was strong, stronger than Derek, at least. He had really damaged his and Stiles’ tenuous relationship the last couple of weeks, which he deeply regretted because he thought he might have realized when Stiles had been possessed. If he had been there, close, around. But he’d been holed up in his loft, ignoring Stiles and the world, wondering when his power would finally leave him an empty shell. But it hadn’t yet and Stiles was not Stiles and yet Derek wasn’t really Derek. He couldn’t help, not the way he was, not now. So with all the Nogitsune knew from Stiles, it brought to question why the creature born of darkness had sought him out.

“You know, Derek Hale, any other werewolf wouldn’t have known Stiles isn’t here right now,” Derek growled, eyes flashing. Maybe he really would have been able to tell however many weeks ago when Stiles had gotten possessed, Derek thought distantly. The Nogitsune chuckled openly, inching closer to the edge of the bed. Derek’s insides were going crazy, screaming at him to flee, to attack, but also to protect because Stiles was in danger right in front of him and he was powerless. “Well, aside from maybe your uncle and that feral girl Stiles and the Alpha found in the woods.” It clicked Stiles’ tongue with a shake of its head. “Should’ve left that one to her blissful ignorance.”

Derek didn’t know what it meant, but he growled, it seemed to be all he was capable of doing at the moment, terrified of confirming what the Nogitsune and Stiles both must have been guessing at. “What do you want,” he ground out, the itch of his gums somewhat grounding. He was so angry because Stiles was right there and in emotional turmoil and Derek couldn’t do a damn thing. He was utterly powerless, subdued by fear and hopelessness.

“Oh, no, no,” the Nogitsune smiled, its mouth curving into a lecherous grin. “This is not what I want.” It chuckled lowly, eyes glistening with mischief.

Derek’s stomach rolled and he felt uncomfortable knotting, eyes frantically searching the monster wearing Stiles’ face, his body, hoping against all hope. He knew he was attractive and that he was particularly attractive to a mole-dotted and doe-eyed teenager, found said teenager to be devastating, but he’d kept it platonic, kept Stiles close, but not too close. Until a few weeks ago. Stiles had made a move and Derek had ghosted him two days later without any explanation because he couldn’t shift. He went cold all over, dread pooling in along with the uncomfortable knotting, distant nausea ghosting over his body. “What,” he uttered, his voice thick with emotion and his throat dry. He desperately tried not to think about why it had brought Stiles here.

It took only a few steps and fingers were gripping the edge of the bed. Derek couldn’t muster up anything more than a devastated sort of glare. “You know  _ what _ ,” the Nogitsune said, sneering uncaringly. Then it was grinning and confirming Derek’s fear with a single expression, not needing the next words it was sure to emit, rubbing in how helpless he was. “He wants you,” he leered, gripping the bedsheet.

Derek roared, enraged, and felt his claws and fangs lengthen for the first time in several days. The miraculous success barely phased him though, eyes completely focused on the Nogitsune who held Stiles hostage. He ripped his dark, silky sheets from his body and slid from the mattress, stalking toward the creature backing away toward a wall. The thoughts as to why it wasn’t running fled as his mind raged, angry and sad.

It made several daunting and spine-chilling sounds of disappointment with Stiles’ mouth, shaking his head in disapproval. Derek paused, uncertain. “You don’t want to get physical, Derek.” It smiled salaciously, “At least, not yet.” It trailed a hand up and down Stiles’ side, caressing.

Derek growled, revulsion coursing through his veins as he watched Stiles’ hands move against his will. He didn’t want to look, but it was impossible to not look.

The Nogitsune smiled, sure of itself as it made Stiles’ fingers fiddle with the hem of his sweatshirt. Before Derek could blink, the dark-green article was pulled off, the Nogitsune’s smile curving Stiles’ lips harshly, entertained. Derek couldn’t think, didn’t want to, because he didn’t know what it was doing. Or maybe he didn’t want to know.

It balled up the article of clothing into a tight mass and hurled it through the open area, landing somewhere near the expansive floor-to-wall windows, slightly obscured by the shadow of a large pillar. Derek wanted to get it, push it onto Stiles, but didn’t want to step any farther away from him—it—them? Derek didn’t know. Right now Stiles was the Nogitsune. In a few minutes, a few hours, days? It would be Stiles. Derek was confused and hopeless and so fucking angry.

The Nogitsune dragged the zipper of Stiles’ jeans down painfully slowly, savoring Derek’s suffering and Stiles’ soon-to-be misery, its taunting eyes never leaving Derek’s incensed gaze. The werewolf’s jaw was clenched tight as he watched the Nogitsune violate Stiles so unabashedly, the trickster spirit quickly dropping Stiles’ jeans and boxers to his ankles. Derek glared murderously, helplessly.

Derek was resolutely keeping his suddenly scorching-red eyes locked with the Nogitsune’s amused gaze if only to not expressly participate in the utter violation. He had known where it was going before the Nogitsune had even started touching Stiles sensually, caressing his mole-dotted skin and Derek wanted to tear his own fucking guts out. He wanted to eviscerate. The lower Stiles’ hand traveled, not of his own free will, the more Derek’s control slipped on what depleted amount was left of his lycanthropy.

Then Stiles’ hand was wrapping around his hardening cock, but it wasn’t really Stiles at the moment and Derek was moving before he could even think. “Stop it,” Derek roared, wrenching Stiles’ hand away and replacing the hand with his own. Horror dawned as Derek realized what he’d done—what he was doing and then there were unfocused and dazed eyes staring back at him, inches from his own.

“De—Derek,” Stiles barely managed to get out in a breathy utterance, eyes doe-like and wide. “Derek,” he said, eyes rolling toward the ceiling, a horrible mixture of mortification, fear, and discomfort.

“I—I’m sorry,” he said, hand dropping and his beta-shift melting away to a horrified and shameful visage. “I’m so sorry,” he said again, backing further away and shutting his eyes belatedly, then turning around. Humiliation and disgust permeated the air, making Derek feel sick to his stomach all over again.

  
  


Stiles  _ felt  _ Derek let go and watched him push himself backward and rush toward the windows, looking horrified and Stiles just wanted to cry as the realization sunk in. He felt so humiliated and dirty, disgusted with himself because somehow it was his fault for getting possessed. It had to be. He didn’t know what had happened, his pants were at his ankles and he didn’t even know where his shirt was. For all he knew, the Nogitsune had told Derek about how fucking gone he was on the guy and tried to fucking put on a show and Derek had almost ripped his dick off. Stiles should have just killed himself when he realized he was losing time. He should ask Derek to kill him. Maybe he would now.

The red eyes were something that made Stiles far more disoriented than he’d ever been since the Nogitsune had shown up. When had that happened? How long had he been out for? Days? Weeks? Months? Stiles didn’t want to think about that because it just made him panicked and fucking sad. Was Scott still an Alpha? Stiles cringed away from that line of thought, recalling twisting a sword amongst Scott’s innards, the terribleness of the moment the Nogitsune let Stiles see vividly.

Stiles was confused and humiliated and utterly dejected as he awkwardly and hurriedly pulled his pants back up. There were tears in his eyes, the sudden and overwhelming emotions unable to be held back, his breathing erratic and uncontrolled. He wanted to run away and hide, but he couldn’t because he didn’t know what was going on and he needed to find his fucking shirt. He didn’t even know what day it was. He was scouring the loft where Derek wasn’t facing, frantic and desperate, wiping at his blurry vision and sniffing helplessly. Where the fuck was it?

“Stiles,” came Derek’s voice from directly behind him.

Stiles froze, spine going ram-rod straight, desperately wanting to flee, to cry. He was barely withholding a sob because everything was so far out of control. Stiles had no control of himself, the entire situation—anything. People were dying because of him. And Derek was about to murder Stiles five seconds ago. Stiles slowly turned around, finding the Alpha werewolf with the old  _ Sheriff of Beacon County _ sweatshirt Stiles stole when he was twelve. The shirt he’d been wearing when he went to sleep—whenever that was.

“I’m sorry,” both said at the same time, now wearing similarly confused and uncomfortable expressions.

“Uh, why—are you sorry,” Stiles awkwardly questioned after Derek handed over his sweatshirt, humiliation burning under his skin.

“I—the nogitsune was  _ doing things _ and—I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking very clearly. I’m sorry.”

Stiles couldn’t stop the bitter laugh that bubbled out of him. “I’m sure,” he replied, the most unsure he’d ever been in his life. He abruptly changed the subject because his skin was starting to crawl, asking, “So the red eyes, when did that happen? How long have I been gone?” He tried his best to push all of his feelings to somewhere he wouldn’t be able to find them, his face becoming increasingly blank and indifferent by the second.

“What,” Derek said, lacking any and all inflection.

“The red,” Stiles repeated, insouciantly gesturing at his own eyes, the humiliation and disgust no more than an echo in his mind now.

“The—Stiles, my eyes aren’t red.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” Stiles said airily. He abruptly asked, “You seen Scott, ‘cause I’m not too keen on seeing the guy anytime soon.” He sunk onto the edge of Derek’s bed and smiled, finding all this horror hysterically unamusing. “Last time, I had a sword in his stomach,” Stiles said wryly, lying on his back and staring at the high ceiling. Stiles wanted to die. Right then though, he felt like he’d actually be able to do it himself. Stiles distantly heard Derek disappear up the spiral staircase and wondered if Derek wanted him to leave.

Stiles knew they should be keeping him contained or whatever—and that they were probably looking for him—but maybe Derek was still super pissed about the dick thing and the kissing thing a few weeks before so he didn’t care what Stiles did. Stiles wasn’t leaving, though. He was tired and didn’t think it was a very good idea to be laying on a bed, but he was severely sleep-deprived and could have been awake for days—whatever. Stiles just wanted to zone out and pretend like nothing was wrong, that everything was pointless. What did it matter that Derek saw him naked? Nothing mattered, not really. Stiles was probably gonna die, regardless of suicide, and he was resigned. He closed his eyes, hands clasped on his chest, the perfect picture of a corpse.

  
  


Derek stared at the mirror, frozen, dark red eyes staring back, almost mockingly. He thought—hoped Stiles was lying, had been confused, but he wasn’t and Derek didn’t know how he felt. He felt at ease with the Alpha spark there once again, but he felt awful recalling the number of Hales it had passed from—how it had passed. He wasn’t even a good Alpha. His betas were dead, almost all of them and the two left alive had fled the country and joined Scott’s pack because Derek wasn’t good enough.

He couldn’t be an Alpha, he realized. Everyone always died. They either left or died if they didn’t. It was Derek’s fate, to forever be alone. He didn’t deserve to be an Alpha, to have a pack, not that he’d had one since Laura—a real pack. He’d gotten two innocent kids killed and it fucking destroyed him. Derek would have rather been left a helpless human than an Alpha werewolf. He would end up getting more people killed. It was inevitable.

Derek felt his eyes flickering of their own accord and found blue warring with red, but he couldn’t comprehend what was happening as excruciating pain exploded across his body. Every bone shattered, reshaping and melding in what could have been seconds, though, it felt endless. Derek was howling out in pain by the time he was brought to the ground, unable to stop what was happening. For what seemed like an eternity, Derek was the embodiment of pain.

  
  


Stiles’ eyes shot open, blinking rapidly as he blearily looked around himself, disoriented. He heard a howl from above and sat up abruptly, remembering where he was and who had disappeared to the floor above—hopefully—a few moments ago. He scuttled to the edge of the California King and steadied himself there, listening for more. When nothing came, Stiles idly wondered if he was in a nightmare, though the thought was quickly gone with several counts of his ten fingers.

Stiles stayed perched on the edge of Derek’s bed, completely focused on the spiral staircase, eyes in a constant state of roving up and down in scrutiny. Until a black blur emerged at the top, drawing Stiles’ hyperfocused gaze. His eyes widened, growing larger the more the wolf was exposed, taking careful steps down the stairs. The wolf was larger than any wolf Stiles had seen in pictures. Stiles’ mouth hung open in shock and awe, without a doubt knowing it was Derek, but the red eyes were comforting. Stiles blinked, he’d never found red eyes comforting, though every time he saw them on Derek the guy was protecting him so maybe he couldn’t say never.

Stiles didn’t move because he didn’t know what to do. He didn’t know if this was a normal thing Derek did now, but it wasn’t like Stiles could ask the guy. He was furry and all soft and killer-looking. Stiles didn’t know if he should just lay back down or run, but he didn’t want to take his eyes off from the wolf.

He watched the wolf take the last step from the stairs and wondered if he was going to pass Stiles or attack him. The wolf’s gaze settled on Stiles almost immediately, the scratching of his claws on the cement deafening and resounding through the more or less empty and spacious room as he slowly advanced. The closer Derek got, the faster Stiles’ heart beat, and Stiles didn’t know if it was from fear or anticipation, though he figured both.

His breathing got farther and farther away from him until there was a black wolf looking up into Stiles’ eyes. Then there were paws at either side of him and a muzzle inches from his own face, eyes watchful and calculating. Stiles’ eyes darted between Derek’s now hazel ones as the wolf’s muzzle nudged his shoulder, huffing and pushing more aggressively at Stiles until he flailed backward.

Then there was an exceptionally large and extremely intimidating werewolf standing over him. Stiles could hardly breathe and then he  _ rea _ lly couldn’t breathe when Derek just fucking dropped down onto his chest, stealing all of his air. Stiles tried pushing at him, even after he could actually breathe, but the guy was an immovable object. When Stiles simply devolved into petulantly pinching the wolf in various areas, Derek just growled and settled sharp fangs at the base of Stiles’ throat.

Surprisingly, Stiles didn’t freak out, quite the opposite actually. For some reason, he felt at ease for what must have been the first time in weeks, thoughts of a possible peaceful slumber emerging. With sharp teeth pressed against Stiles’ jugular, he closed his eyes and let the safety and softness lull him to sleep.

  
  


Derek was awake again, but this time he knew it was because of the Nogitsune. There was no doubt in his mind about it. Slowly, something started wriggling beneath him, mumbling and grumbling. Derek lifted up with his front paws slightly and then Stiles—the Nogitsune was blinking bleary eyes up at the wolf.

“Hey, Der,” it mumbled sleepily, pretending.

Derek growled, the Nogitsune’s facade of sleepiness quickly melting into one of mischievous amusement.

“Aw, don’t be like that, Derek.” It smirked and whispered almost conspiratorially, “And we all thought you were broken.” He chuckled. “You were just evolving. I wonder what use I could have for an evolved  _ Alpha _ .”

Derek’s fangs were at the base of Stiles’ throat in an instant, almost of their own volition, pressing sharp fangs into weary and soft skin. Then he was shifting into his human form in horror, frozen above the possessed human who smiled, entertained by the wrongness of the situation. Derek wrapped a careful, but tight hand around Stiles’ throat because it still wasn’t Stiles, but it was still Stiles at the same time. He didn’t want to hurt him, but he wanted to keep the Nogitsune restrained. His instincts warred.

“Oh,” the Nogitsune let out with a pleased expression, wriggling more, jarring Derek’s limp cock. “Stiles likes this,” it said, far more delighted than he’d been all night. There was a hand grabbing at his cock, stroking it to life, and Derek grit his teeth, glaring at it, but unrelenting in his grip around Stiles’ throat. He couldn’t react, but knew he would with Stiles beneath him, Stiles’ scent, even though it wasn’t Stiles. It wasn’t really him, not anymore.

“Stop,” he growled out, red at the edges of his vision, clawed hand tightening imperceptibly around Stiles’ throat.

“Ooh, he definitely likes this,” it purred, wriggling more beneath Derek.

“He’s not here,” Derek ground out, hatred lacing every word.

“No, he isn’t, but it’s still his body, reacting.” It smiled like it’d won the lottery, far more pleased than he was a moment before. Too pleased.

Then Derek smelled it, the arousal, mixing with Derek’s. Derek dug a fang into his bottom lip to stifle a whimper of pleasure because it was still stroking him, a slightly slick slide afforded by it licking Stiles’ hand repeatedly. The next time the Nogitsune brought Stiles’ hand up to slather in spit, Derek wrapped his hand around Stiles’ wrist and pinned it to the bed roughly. “Stop,” he said again, anger covering his tiredness, his weariness.

The Nogitsune absolutely preened. “Stiles thinks you hate him.” Its eyes seemed to glow in delight. “Thinks you’re disgusted by him, his  _ feelings _ . It’s wonderful.” It wriggled more beneath, more frantic.

Derek felt the back of Stiles’ other hand brush against his cock, but didn’t know what he was doing until he heard the zipper. He almost let go of Stiles’ throat and his wrist, but couldn’t do it, his instinct to protect against taking over. His eyes glowed red and he slurred around fangs once more, “Stop.” Desperate.

The Nogitsune laughed quietly, never breaking eye contact as he dragged his hand up Derek’s abdomen and chest before bringing the hand up to Stiles’ mouth. Derek glared, trembling with the anger and power coursing through his veins. Then the hand was wrapped around his dick and then there was more flesh against his own, not a hand. Derek let out a startled gasp, his grip loosening, though the Nogitsune didn’t even try to remove Derek. Derek hadn’t realized how much he’d been playing into its hands until that moment.

Derek almost let go entirely, but then it was moaning and it sounded like Stiles. Like when he’d bite into a juicy burger or shove several curly fries into his mouth all at once and it was just too much. The stimulation on his cock, the smells, the sounds that sounded so  _ like _ Stiles. It was too much, he couldn’t handle it and come out clean. His head dropped and he found himself rutting into Stiles’ hand and mouthing at his jugular, the soft skin salty and delicious, grounding. He couldn’t stop himself from gnawing and panting against the exposed expanse. His grip loosened, the clawed hand sliding to the back of Stiles’ neck and his other hand knocking Stiles’ hand away and taking hold of their exposed members.

“Oh, Derek,” it said, angering Derek. His hand tightened at the back of Stiles’ neck as he bit more urgently and harder at Stiles’ throat, stroking their cocks faster and faster, wishing Stiles was there. Not this pretender.

Stiles gasped at the bites, breathless, but Derek knew it wasn’t really Stiles. It was pretending.

Derek mouthed at Stiles’ jugular, his collarbones, claws pressing dangerously against the delicate skin of his nape. He knew Stiles couldn’t consent, but he couldn’t stop himself. He couldn’t do anything, but keep squeezing and pulling until they’d come, but maybe even then he wouldn’t be able to control himself. Maybe that’s what the Nogitsune wanted all along. For him to lose himself completely.

Before Derek could fall into oblivion, his claws were sinking into the delicate skin at Stiles’ nape of their own volition, Derek’s hips stuttering with his fang-accompanied teeth pressing hard against his jugular. Just as the panic was setting in, Derek found himself on a white floor.

There was white for miles and the air smelled so viscerally of Stiles it made Derek almost feral. Then he heard a small  _ clack clack _ , nearly imperceptible, but deafening in the silence of the static whiteness. His head shot toward the sound, eyes glowing a bright red, hearing hyper-focusing on the quiet clattering and weary breaths. A massive stump, reminiscent of the nemeton, held two figures and a large goban filled with black and white stood between the two.

Stiles sat on the stump with his legs crossed, a pensive look on his face and a small Go piece idling between his fingers, eyes scrutinizing the board, and trying to figure out his next move. The other figure had wraps covering its entire body, wearing an ancient-looking bomber jacket as it too watched on in thought. Derek felt his entire being radiate with rage as he realized what creature sat opposite Stiles. He shook with it.

“Stiles,” he slurred around sharp fangs and a growl, starting toward the stump.

Stiles made no sign that he heard Derek nor did the creature in wraps show any sign that it was aware of Derek’s presence either. They both stared on, scouring the board. It didn’t seem like he actually moved when he walked either. When he stopped, growling in frustration, he was still there, like he was watching behind a film.

“Stiles,” he yelled, growling, claws bared, though, in this place Derek was wearing clothes.

Stiles still didn’t acknowledge him, though he did move to place a piece down, but pulled back before he could set it down fully.

Something inside of Derek snapped, angry and frustrated and he roared as loud as he could. The sound resounding across the white static and breaking through the barrier between Stiles and Derek. Stiles’ head whipped towards him and Derek felt something settle in him at the recognition he found in those eyes. Then Stiles was turning back to the board and swiping the pieces off the board and running toward Derek.

“D—Derek,” Stiles whimpered and suddenly they were back on the bed, cum spurting from their cocks. Stiles’ eyes rolled into the back of his head and Derek shuddered. But then Stiles was coughing and choking and Derek was scrabbling off from him and the bed.

“Stiles?” He watched as a wrapped arm appeared, a body coming quickly after. “Stiles,” he said once the body was fully flailing on the bed, just knowing it was Stiles. The Nogitsune who’d stolen Stiles’ body got off the bed to stand next to Derek, eyes wide and mouth parted. It would have been a great act, was even, if Derek was anyone else. The Nogitsune had even said it earlier.

Then he was suddenly digging his fangs into Stiles’ shoulder, but it wasn’t Stiles’ shoulder. Stiles was on the bed peeling wraps from his body. Derek didn’t know how he knew the body in front of him wasn’t Stiles or even how he knew to be biting, changing. Instincts, he supposed. He pulled his teeth out and pushed the Nogitsune away, causing it to tumble to the floor.

“Derek,” Stiles gasped from the bed, the jacket and most of the wraps at the end of the bed and on the floor. Before Derek could go comfort him, there was a low buzz and his hand shot out, squishing something between his fingers. Electricity crackled and burned around the room and then everything went dead. “Der—ek,” Stiles let out on the cusp of a sob, clumsily pushing the last of the wrap off, shaking.

Derek let the ash-like substance slip between his fingers and turned away from the fracturing of the Nogitsune’s body. He crawled onto the bed, still completely naked, and stilled Stiles’ frantic hands, carefully untangling the wrap and taking it off, pushing it and the rest to the floor with the jacket that was slowly disintegrating into ash.

Then he looked into Stiles’ pale and vulnerable face, eyes searching Derek’s as the older man searched his. A tear slipped free as Stiles’ lips slowly curved down into a frown, brows coming together painfully, sadness permeating the air. Derek tentatively pulled the boy by his shoulders and suddenly Stiles was sobbing against his chest, inconsolable, gripping at Derek’s bare skin. Derek let him, one hand on the back of his neck and the other rubbing his back, wondering if he should tell Stiles about the thing when he quiets or just never. Would Stiles rather not know?

After the tears had subsided and his chest was a wet mess, Derek let out a croaky, “Stiles?” When no reply or grunt of acknowledgment came, he said a softer and much more unsure, “Stiles? I—”

“I saw.” His voice was quiet, the words said in a small breath, almost forced out. Words he didn’t actually want to be heard.

“You saw,” Derek said dumbly, his hand stilling momentarily before starting again. “You mean, you saw—the bed and—the—”

Stiles pulled away from the embrace, hiding his face in his sweatshirt as he wiped it clean of the wetness. Then he uncovered a cleaner face and stared into Derek’s eyes and Derek felt like he was seeing too much. “He let me see—feel.” He shuddered and Derek felt it.

“Stiles—”

“You—again—but then—and you knew it wasn’t me.” He sounded so hurt and Derke didn’t know what to say. “You—You touched me— _ him _ —and you  _ knew _ ,” said, a pain cutting down Derek’s chest.

“Stiles, I—I couldn’t control myself—”

“Derek,” Stiles said, eyes tear-brimmed once more.

“Your scent was all there was and it sounded—” He cringed from his own words, knowing it didn’t sound good. “I’m sorry, Stiles. I shouldn’t have fallen for it so easily. I’m so sorry, Stiles.”

“I thought you hated me,” he said smally, eyes on the hands in his lap. “I thought you’d kill me—”

“I’m  _ sorry _ ,” Derek cut in. “I’m sorry I stopped—I’m sorry I made you feel like this. I was—”

“I know, Alpha,” Stiles said, now eyeing Derek. “I thought I was an idiot and then it clicked. Then—when he came here—I thought I was seeing things. And then the wolf—Can you change,” he cut in abruptly.

“Yes.” He quickly asked, “You want me too right now?”

Stiles nodded. “Right now I just want to cry, or punch you, or kiss you. I’m really fucking sad because the Nogitsune used my body to  _ slaughter people _ and you fucking—” He took in a sharp breath, trying to calm himself down because it wasn’t Derek’s fault, not really. Derek tried to reach out, but Stiles glared him down. “I am angry—No, I am  _ furious _ and kind of fucking heart-broken.” He waved Derek off before he could speak. “I know—I  _ knew _ —figured out that maybe you didn’t just ghost me for no reason, but that didn’t mean it hurt any less.” He dragged his hands through his hair. “Fuck, Derek.” He was shaking slightly and Derek wanted nothing more than to comfort him. “You have no idea how I feel right now. I feel violated and like someone ripped my fucking heart out, but also guilty for killing—” Stiles stopped talking and distracted himself from thoughts of death with the realization that maybe Derek did know what he felt like. He laughed bitterly and looked at the older man’s startled look. “Fuck, maybe you do.” Stiles felt borderline hysterical, his emotions so completely fucked. “Change, Derek. Please.”

So Derek changed. And Stiles clung to his fur, crying, talking in low murmurs, apologizing, and sleeping, though, the sleep was always short-lived.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading and such.  
> If it was unsatisfactory, I get it.


End file.
